


Spit The Dummy

by AngelOfBooze



Series: Autistic!Simon Monroe [7]
Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Autistic Character, Autistic Simon Monroe, Autistic!Simon Monroe, Gen, Poor Simon, my baby I'm sorry, pre-rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:37:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2701505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfBooze/pseuds/AngelOfBooze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why don't people listen to Simon? He knows what he wants and thinks. People don't seem to get that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spit The Dummy

**Author's Note:**

> This work was a plot bunny spawned by Mondkalb's comment on 'Not My Circus, Not My Monkey', I hope I've done it justice. I feel like this fic is a bit rushed though. Thoughts?  
> Unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine.

Simon scowled at the man standing in his living room. He refused to believe that this man was a family friend. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, threatening to spill out at any moment. Simon angrily rubbed a sleeve across his face. The man had been tolerable at first; although he kept disregarding what Simon was saying and looking to Simon’s parents for confirmation and affirmation on whether Simon was telling the truth.

“Hello, I’m Simon"

He looks to Simon’s mother, waiting for her to incline her head before taking Simons hand and shaking it.

“I’m fifteen”

Look away. Wait. Repeat.

“I like race cars and my favourite colour is blue”

Look away. Wait. Repeat.

Simon had given up talking at that point, choosing instead to retreat to a step halfway up the stairs where he could still see the man. Simon could only just make out that the man was talking, though he didn’t really register the words until a few seconds later. He wasn’t trying to follow what the man was saying; instead he chose to seethe in his anger. Simon was just waiting for the man to leave. Simon’s mother called up to him to wash his hands and face for dinner. Simon sat still for a second. His brain was blank. He knew the routine, he followed it every night. That didn’t make it easier to get started. Simon was usually fine once he got started.

Simon eventually began crawling up the stairs at a snails pace, still figuring out what his mother had said. He eventually made it to the bathroom; he was worrying his lips with his teeth the whole time he was up there.

Simon trained his features into neutrality by the time he had descended the stairs and come down to the kitchen table. The man was sitting at the end closest to the front door, his spidery fingers curled elegantly around the cutlery set down for the meal of beef and mashed potatoes. “Can you pass the salt?” Simon asked the man, whose gaze flitted over to him but ultimately settled on Simon’s father. “Aye, son. There’s already salt on yer food. You won’t like it if you put more on.” Simon’s father said. The man went back to his food. Simon didn’t. He tried again. “Pass the salt” he said. It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a demand either. The man flicked his eyes up to Simon but still made no move to pass the salt.

Simon clenched his fists. He gritted his teeth. He felt tears begin to well in his eyes for the second time that night. He stayed quite. Simon drummed his fingers on the table and tapped his foot. The man glared at him. Simon felt a spark of happiness flare up in his chest. He continued. The man had stopped eating and just glared. Simon hummed a little. The man glared harder. He couldn’t remember the man’s name. “Stop it” the man said.

“Pass the salt” Simon countered. He had stopped humming but was still drumming on the table and tapping his foot. Simon’s father shot a harsh look at his son. “Simon, do what the man tells you” he said. Simons mind was on one track and one track only. “Pass the salt” he said. Simon’s mother sighed. “Pass the salt” Simon said again. There was more steel in his voice than before. The man just glared. “Your father says there’s already salt in the food” He said. Simon looked down at the food. He carefully cut a small piece off of it. He placed it in his mouth. He chewed. He swallowed. “Pass the salt” he said.

The man looked to Simon’s mother. “Pass. The salt” Simon said, no, demanded. Simon’s mother just kept eating her food, obviously hoping the issue would resolve itself. The man wasn’t budging. Simon decided he would just grab the salt. After all, his pride wasn’t going to be effected by giving in to such a man. Simon got up and walked around to the man’s side. He reached down and grabbed the salt.

The man’s hand shot out and clenched around Simon’s wrist, the pain made Simon cry out. It wasn’t so much as the amount of pressure being applied to Simon’s wrist, rather the actual fact that he was being held and touched and unable to escape. Worse still, he didn’t know this man. The feeling of fire under Simon’s skin where the man touched him caused Simon to start screaming. He couldn’t stop. He knew he should stop. He wanted to stop. His mother was looking at him. His father was looking away from him, ashamed. Ashamed in his son. Simon became ashamed in himself. The man had let go in fright but the damage was done. Simon threw the salt to the side. He fell to the ground, landing painfully on his tail bone on the cold floor. He clutched his arm to his chest, like it was injured. The man was staring.

Leave me alone Simon thought. His mind was crying out. His body was stunned into silence after his initial outburst. Simon pushed himself as far backwards from the man as the small space would allow. His eyes were dry but his heart was beating too fast. Simon was shaking. The silence in the room was pushing down on him. The only sound was the wind outside, rustling the branches. There was just silence. Stunned silence. So much silence.

Simon gritted his teeth. He could feel the cold floor through the worn down soles of his socks and he could feel the cold door of a cupboard through the thin materiel of his shirt. Simon was hot. Everything was too cold but Simon was too hot. He could feel fire spreading from his arm and into his torso. Simon let out a high pitched whine. His breathing was ragged.

Simon could hear the scraping of the chairs and the noise of cutlery. It pierced into his head like nails. He pressed his hands into his head and bit down on his lip. Simon could feel the grown-ups walking out of the kitchen. He could hear them saying their good byes. He heard his parents saying sorry. Sorry. Simon couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t Simon’s fault. It was the man’s fault. His parents shouldn’t be acting like the man wasn’t the one causing all of the problems because he was a guest.

Simon wasn’t allowed the rest of his dinner. He wasn’t hungry. He went to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fic!  
> Come and give me some ideas for more fics at angelofbooze on tumblr!


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